Indifference
by Aaida-harplakE
Summary: Naruto, an orphan with an illness in a tiny, secluded village. Villagers hate him because of his disease. Sasuke, a doctor in training. To beat Itachi, he must cure Naruto. But illness isn’t the only thing needs healing. SasuNaru, AU.
1. His Morning

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. (Happy now?)

Summery: Naruto-an orphan with an illness in a tiny, secluded village. Villagers hate him because of his disease. Sasuke-a doctor in training. To beat Itachi, he must cure Naruto. But illness isn't the only thing needs healing. SasuNaru, AU.

A/N: This piece started with me doodling random lines. I'm really depressed at the moment, but I'm a firm believer in happy endings. Please enjoy despite the poor grammar and spelling, I'm not a writer.

Chapter 1 - His morning

Granted he's not considered a genius and his IQ is just average. But he's sensitive, very much so. He may not act like it, but all that jabs he took heroically from the constant looking down from his villagers have gotten to the core of his emotions more than he had liked. The indifference that he showed is just his defiant side trying hardest not let his last remaining pride crumble. And then there is his dream; his overly unrealistic, unobtainable dream (something no one believed he would ever able to get) is another way of anchoring himself with the reality. Madness, to be totally crazy and psychotic (something everyone thought he will be sooner or later) is so easy, all he needs to do is be the little good emo boy so fashionable nowadays. Oh yes, be an emo and everything will be all right, every damn needs he ever had will just simply resolve themselves.

He stares at the plain white ceiling of his tiny apartment. Water stains yellow with age. Laying on the single bed with bed sheets surprisingly clean, his eyes follows the cracks of the paints and back down towards the ticking of his alarm clock.

7.30am.

Always this time that he would wake up. Last night, he'd set his alarm to ring at 8.00am clearly aware that his internal clock always wakes him up before that anyway.

7.31am.

He slowly gets up from his stupor. The overly large white shirt that served as his pyjama drape over his petite frame far too small for a boy of sixteen exposing much of his upper torso. Lazily he takes out a small bottle beneath his pillow. Opening the lid, he pops two pills into his mouths. Taking a sip from the orange water bottle beside his bed stand, the boy noisily swallows.

7.34am.

His left hand twitches slight and his right arm is shaking uncontrollably. Unsteadily, he draws his knees up and tries to hug them with the not responding arms. Feeling the usual rush of heat up from the bottom of his lungs towards his cheeks- something that happens every time when he took those pills, he let his left eyelid twitch freely.

7.46am.

Giving up the attempt of 'foetal position', he let his right hand, now stilled run up and down his smooth, mildly tanned skin. Breathing now deeply to calm down the rush of heat that's not as intense of before. His toes curls and uncurl unconsciously whilst his attention fully concentrated on his breathing.

7.50am.

Sweat pours down his forehead, neck, soles of his feet and palms. He stands up, walking towards the bathroom leaning against the wall for support. Legs wobbling, head throbbing.

8.00am.

Alarm clock rings and he's just finished brushing his teeth and is battling with the shirt-pyjama for the right to be as the day he was born. Headache and muscle failure almost all gone; now he moves with a normal pace, thou many dub it 'retarded speed', like everything that's associated with him.

8.05am.

Shower finished, a clean set of clothes wore and the useless alarm clock stopped ringing. He picks up his black school bag and his pastel-orange coat. Zipping up the coat, he takes one last look of his reflection from the narrow plastic mirror on the shoe hanger behind the front door.

Wheat blond hair, crystal blue eyes, three pink whisker like birthmarks on each cheek, small (if not distinctively feminine) build, dainty fingers curly aimlessly around the black bag stripe hanging from the left shoulder. A loose white T-shirt with red swirl design and a baggy pair of navy jeans under a waterproof coat.

8.06am.

He steps outside his apartment, yanking the traitorous door close with a bang. It's another day for Uzumaki Naruto.

End Chapter 1

A/N: What do you think? Please do tell me. I'll write about Sasuke in the next instalment if I get a review (notice the word 'a', yes just one will do).


	2. His Death

Disclaimer: I will be happy enough if I ever manage to be one of Kishimoto-sensei's many assistants.

Summery: Naruto, an orphan with an illness in a tiny, secluded village. Villagers hate him because of his disease. Sasuke, a doctor in training. To beat Itachi, he must cure Naruto. But illness isn't the only thing needs healing. SasuNaru, AU.

A/N: I got 3 reviews! Three (1 is enough to make me grinning the whole day, 3 is ecstasy for me)! So I update, yeah. Still rather depressed (depression gets my muse working thou X3 ).

-Chapter 2 – His death-

It doesn't end. (Hard rain pounding the fragile, age-old windowpane.)

This sorrow and regret. Most of all the hatred. (To think such beautiful times ended in such a way. All that maybes, could haves, the WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE THIS WAY?)

The past is done and over with. (Stupid people and their worldly wisdoms.)

You look forward to the future, look forward to the 'tomorrow'. (Cold eyes reflect from cold glass.)

Living the past and to live for the past. (My last regret was not able to savour that dying firefly. It shimmered and fell from my fingertip and plunged right into the still, dark pool.)

A small boy sprints across a field. One hand supporting a beige school bag, the other clutching a report book excitedly.

He catches the sight of three figures seating in their usual spot on a Friday afternoon.

The day is fine, blue sky, white clouds, spring air, still wind…

One man in dark grey suit, sipping tea from a white porcelain cup. Its gold rim glisters in the sunlight.

The lady is clothed in a simple turquoise flower print dress on the man's right, elegantly posed; she fingers gently a teaspoon and a cream jug.

A boy (whose mature air says otherwise) is carefully cutting a lemon cheesecake in four equal portions. His white shirt straight from the iron, his trousers pressed this morning, his shoes just polished, his hair combed, gelled, finely styled, beautifully…

"Where have you been?"

"Father, mother, brother look what I got for my exams!"

"Where have you been!"

Not a question, it's a demand. At school, he's learnt many things and that includes grammar. He was a perfect student, never getting anything wrong; he understands everything the minute he's taught. But now he doesn't understand a thing.

Not a single thing.

Father looks angry, mother looks hurt and brother, and brother…

The boy-man smirks at the little one now clutching his report book defensively against his chest.

"Your father is asking you a question." A feminine voice whispers.

No dear, no sweetheart, no honey, no mummy's little boy. Mother never ends her sentence without all that endearing suffixes when she's talking to him. No, she never once stopped calling him a darling even after that time when he begged, whined, later temper-tantrum-ed for her to stop.

That was five years ago.

"I… I… was… was…" He trails off.

"…at school?"

His brother smirks at him again after finishing off that rigid sentence.

"I ask you again. Where have you been?"

_It's a question! A question again! Your father just asked you a question! Answer him now! ANSWER HIM!_

Despite the begging of his worldly sensible inner voice. The boy stares at his family dumbfound. His logic flew out of the window and so did his courage, temper, dignity (to sum it up, everything he's taken pride in himself just deserted him, left him for the lions, the tigers and the crocodiles.)

The man abruptly stands up. The chair decorated with delicate iron works flies backwards and crush lands in the stone floor. He walks dangerous towards the boy hugging the navy blue school report.

"Fugaku…" is murmured hesitantly.

Oh god, he's going to hit you, he's going to hit you! Beg for forgiveness! Don't bother whether you did anything wrong or not, just start begging now! You still stand a chance, mother loves you. She still loves you!

He's here. The man in deep grey suit towers the small boy in his dusty red school uniform.

He's disgusted with me.

The boy's blue-black eyes meeting his father's furious gaze in… fear?

There was a boy who cried that night whilst sitting against his window seat, watching the night howling. His eyes mirroring the weather, its indifference to all the helpless and sad creatures of the world.

That was fifteen years ago when Uchiha Sasuke was ten.

At ten, the boy who once smiled, once laughed, once bounced, once whined, once played, ONCE LIVED died in an indifferent death.

-End Chapter 2-

A/N: Do tell me what you think, so I know what to emphasise in the next chapter. I'm planning to make our protagonists meet in the subsequent episode, or at least get on the doctor-patient part (remember, the number of review is directly proportional to the author's update speed!)


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